Fallen Angel
by Lady of Something
Summary: "Oh, I may be on the side of angels, but do not think for one second that I am one of them." This is what Sherlock said on the roof of the saint, but what if he was wrong? An OC fic based off this thought process, where Sherlock has wings but can no longer fly. Can Kayla (my OC) teach him? And who is he to her? (The events here occur just after A Study in Pink. Written in 1st POV.)
1. The Birthday Girl

**Fallen Angel  
**If I owned it, Johnlock and Mystrade would most certainly be canon.

* * *

_"Oh, I may be on the side of angels, but do not think for one second that I am one of them"  
But what if Sherlock was wrong?_

_An OC fic based off a plot bunny that visited me while I was sketching an angel. At least it brought chocolate._

**xXx**

Every now and then, though it cannot be measured in Earth time, a Being will fall from the heavens and manifest itself in a human body that is close to death, yet not deserving of dying. The process itself is too complicated for even the most genius of minds to come close to understanding, but the sole purpose of the events is to do good.

Now, I'm not saying that they cannot do wrong, no, that is entirely possible (depending on the situation), but the outcome of their actions must always do at least one group of people some form of good. Murdering to save lives is always an option for them, even if some people would argue the opposite.

Our story starts sometime in January, though the year is uncertain. A young girl by the name of Kayla Robinson was running down the streets of London, pulling her mother by the hand, who was following her good-naturedly. Little Kayla was very exited- and for a good reason might I add- as she had turned ten that very day, and her mother was taking her shopping, where she could tell all of her mother's friends that she was 'almost eleven'.

However, in the instance between New Oxford street and Oxford street, many things happened at once: Firstly, the mother's phone notified her of a text, and she stopped rather suddenly; Secondly, dear Kayla fell over onto the road; and thirdly, a car came whizzing around the corner. Kayla's mother rushed out on the road to fling her child out of the way, and she succeeded- but Kayla hit her head in the gutter, and fell unconscious, her life-blood pouring into the drain from a horrible gash on her scalp. Kayla's mother died on impact.

These are the events that lead to darling Kayla's body becoming the vessel of a fallen angel, whose only purpose was to help a small group of people devoted to helping others. Now, you need to remember what is written next- it is very important. This story is just an idea, something that has come out of someone's head. But, in the words of Albus Dumbledore:

"_Why of course it is happening inside your head... … but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"_

**xXx**

_This is chapter one, or the prologue. Yeah... I sort of have to continue this, or I won't get any more chocolate from the plot bunny, but review with feedback? Is anybody reading this?_


	2. Afghanistan or Iraq?

Don't own, otherwise shipping Johnlock would be canon.

* * *

_Yeah... I decided to post the next chapter. You can't really decide whether to read on or not with only a very vague prologue._

**1****st****POV**

I woke up in a body bag. My reaction to this was most incredibly normal- after awaking with a gasp and inhaling plastic, opening my eyes to only see blackness, and trying to move only to be relatively paralysed, I started calling for help. And, after hearing footsteps on vinyl, the noise of a zip and seeing a young lady with mousy-brown hair peering down at me in shock, I promptly burst into tears.

I will take the time to explain why this reaction is perfectly ordinary. Now, despite being a hundred-or-something year old being from the heavens, I was currently in a ten-year-old girl's body. This meant that I had the emotional control of a menstruating teenager on a sugar-low. Also, I was under a great deal of trauma- How would you like it if one moment you were talking with your friends and the next you had fallen out of the relative clouds into a little girl's body? Not very much is the correct answer. Tears were inevitable.

The lady (whose name was Molly) immediately adopted a shocked expression and began apologising profusely while she picked me up, placed me on a chair and went to get some clothes after wrapping a blanket around my petite body. I took the time I was alone to examine my body- I looked around ten, and I had exquisite brown curls that cascaded down my back and contrasted beautifully with my pale skin. I was sure that if you looked at my face you would find bright blue eyes and rosebud pink lips. Call me vain, sure, but I was all about the innocence- no one would suspect a little girl of being capable of, well, anything.

Molly came rushing back into the room, holding a baby-blue dress that looked as though it would fit me perfectly. Goodness knows where she had gotten that from. She gave it to me to put on, and I must have looked cold, and my pale skin definitely hinted at it, because she had brought a silver overcoat to put on as well. She seemed nice- her aura was a very light grey, almost white, and only the best of people had that shade. If she had a boyfriend, he'd better appreciate her.

"Do you want a drink, sweetheart?" She asked me once I had dressed, and I nodded once, trying to keep a shy, sweet facade.

She smiled, and I jumped off the chair, landing on the floor with an 'umph'. It would take a while to adjust to the stronger gravity, though the wings helped, even if they weren't fully tangible upon this plain of existence. Molly took my cold hand in her warm one, and we started walking up the stairs.

As we passed the lady at administration, Molly seemed to have a silent conversation, though it was more like an argument, with the woman at the desk. Molly won, apparently, and ten minutes later we were sitting inside a cafe with a mug of hot chocolate. Well, I had hot chocolate- Molly had opted for black coffee - three sugars.

"Where's mummy?" I asked innocently in a sweet, childish voice. I already knew that Kayla's mother was dead, but a normal ten-year-old wouldn't, and I had to keep up the act.

"Uh, you see, well..." Molly stuttered, and I felt a pang of sympathy for her. How was someone supposed to break it to a ten-year-old that her mother was dead? However, she was saved answering me for the time being when she spotted a short man in his late thirties wearing a jumper walking in. He had a cane, and was limping, favouring his left leg, but he had the cane on the wrong side. There must be something wrong with his shoulder.

Molly beamed. "Oh, there's John!" she said brightly. "You stay here, I'm going to go invite him to sit with us. You don't mind, do you?" she asked me, and I shook my head. Kayla's mother had always told her to be polite, and I didn't see any harm in having an old army soldier sit at the table with us- what was the worst that could happen?

So, when John with the jumper came and sat down beside Molly with a coffee in his hands and a smile on his face, the first thing I asked was exactly what, unknown to me, the world's only consulting detective had asked as well.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" came out of my mouth in a surprisingly well-developed tone, though rather high. And I'm sorry to say I took great delight in watching the smile slip off his face and Molly go into preliminary shock.

**xXx**

_I couldn't help myself- I do apologise. And I'm sorry to say I took great delight in making this into a cliffie._


	3. Slightly Ruffled at the Base

Don't own, otherwise canon Mystrade.

**xXx**

"Oh, good god, not another one." John said, rolling his eyes. I bit back a grin. Oh, he would be interesting to hang around with. But who had said this before me?

"How did you know that, sweetheart?" Molly asked me in a worried tone. I gestured towards the newspaper by the door. On the cover, there were two images- one of soldiers fighting in Afghanistan and one in Iraq (there was a flag in the background). She turned to it and her face turned to one of realisation.

"When you looked at the front page when you saw the newspaper you were worried, like it was something personal." I told John, and he grinned. I didn't mention that his limp was psychosomatic- he probably already knew. "Do you know any of them?" I asked in an innocent tone.

He nodded, and pointed to a ginger-haired one in the left image, the one of Afghanistan. I smiled at him and continued drinking my hot chocolate. His limp obviously wasn't real- when he was waiting in line, he stood normally, and he walked fine when he wasn't paying attention to it. I put down my mug, the sugary beverage gone.

"Where to now, Molly?" I asked. She seemed grateful that I had 'forgotten' about my mum.

"Well, I actually want to talk to John about something in private. If you want, you can get yourself a cookie." She said. I nodded, and she passed over 10 pounds, which, I was sure, was more than enough to get a cookie.

I walked over to the counter and purchased a 'triple choc' biscuit, taking my time to walk back to the table. I gazed out the window while eating it, walking so slow I might as well have been stationary, pulling off the day-dreaming-child act perfectly. In fact, I was trying to listen in on John and Molly's conversation. I caught certain phrases every so often.

"Where, though? Her mother's dead..."

"... Sherlock'd experiment on her, for sure..."

"... at my flat- her medical records say she's allergic to cats..."

"...body parts in the fridge won't be much better..."

"... not the orphanage, social services went nuts..."

"... no, not there..."

"Please, John..."

"... fine. But only for now."

A man bumped into me, sending me flying, but hands grabbed my arms, a bit harshly- not that I couldn't deal with it- and rightened me.

"You right, there, darling?" a sickeningly sweet voice asked me in a Irish accent. I looked up to see a young-looking, clean-shaven face that would have looked at home in an action movie. But his aura was all wrong. It wasn't white, or even grey with splodges of any kind. It was pitch black throughout, an evil, nasty thing that made me want to run away. But instead I smiled sweetly and ducked my head, peeking up at him through my eyelashes. Acting embarrassed was easy, but if only I could blush!

"I'm fine, sir." I said softly. He smiled at me, but it seemed more evil than a frown.

"Good to hear. Off you go." He walked away and I just stood there for a moment, trying to calm my breathing. I shoved the rest of the cookie in my mouth- marvellous thing, chocolate, whatever will humans think of next- and walked over to our table.

"Can we go now?" I asked the pair, and John smiled at me.

"We're going to go to my flat, if that's OK with you." I nodded, showing that yes, it was ok. Yet again, what was the worst that could happen?

We caught a taxi to John's flat (221B Baker Street, quick as you please) and were greeted by an old, motherly lady that seemed to adore children, if her reaction to me was any give-away. Up the stairs, there was a wooden door, which John unlocked before ushering us in.

Seated on the couch, his hands held in front of his mouth seemingly in prayer, was a young man, around the same age as the one that bumped into me at the cafe. He didn't particularly seem that much- his hair flopped in front of his face, which was, to be truthful, rather long, he was far too skinny, and almost as pale as Kayla (I, before I inhabited Kayla's body, had been tanned).

As I said, he didn't seem to be too much. But that was before I saw the wings. The dark navy, almost black, really, slightly-ruffled-at-the-base wings.

**xXx**

_This is where my plot bunny comes in. Yeah... review? Please? I beg? You'll get a happy feeling dedicated to you... a **really happy** happy feeling. _


	4. Greeted is a Term Used Loosely

Don't own because of Sherlolly (that sounds like a sweet...)

**xXx**

Now, you see, sometimes, very rarely, when a Being drops from the heavens to manifest itself in a human body, it will arrive too early. For example, when the human is only a newborn that may have died at birth. In order to keep the secret safe, all the Being's memories will be wiped. But they will retain their wings so that they may be found by others. As with all secrets, if you leave them out in the open they will surely be discovered. So the Sight is taken from them as well.

The Sight is the ability to recognise those of our kind, as well as the ability to see auras. If they retained this ability, then as soon as they learned to talk, they would be blabbing about fairies and shadows and all the other things that they can see. There are two out-comes to this- 1, someone believes them and we are discovered, or 2, no-one believes them and they are given a one-way ticket to an insane asylum. However, they do retain their capacity to learn- the older the Being was when they fell, the smarter, wiser and more perceptive they will be later on in their life.

Now, onto the wings. The wings are very easy to figure out. The older the being, the darker they are. The stronger or smarter the being, the more tangible they are. The morality of the being changes the feathers- the worst of us have scales, or leather wings, and are sent Away. So, according to this, the newly-created will have pure white, intangible wings with incredibly soft feathers. The man before me at this point would have to have been incredibly old and wise as a Being, and relatively good.

**oOo**

I stood at the door, staring at the man with the wings as he greeted those that had walked into the flat with me. Greeted is used loosely.

"Back so soon, John?" he asked the jumper-wearing blonde, who frowned. His voice was very deep, and probably made quite a few ladies fall head-over-heels, Molly included, by the look on her face.

"I said I'd be back after a few minutes- I've been gone around half an hour." John pointed out. However, the man on the couch waved a hand, as if brushing the topic aside.

"Schematics. I didn't notice, therefore it is of no importance. How are you, Molly?" He jumped between topics like a hummingbird would between flowers- as if the one he'd just focused on had done it's purpose and did not matter anymore. John seemed used to this- he walked over to the empty chair and sat down with a grateful sigh.

"I'm- I'm fine, thanks." Molly stuttered. I barely refrained from rolling my eyes. Despite common belief, the longer you lived, the less patient you got- and it didn't help that I was bored. You have no idea how much your friends keep you entertained until they aren't there to anymore.

His eyes darted to me- they were a steely blue-grey and seemed to analyse every part of me. I ducked my head, like any young child would do under such scrutiny, and started worrying a hole in the carpet with the ball of my foot. Any adult, or strong-willed teenager, would return the stare and fold their arms- which is why I kept my gaze down and started worrying with the hem of my dress.

"Molly," the man said, his voice slightly gentler, "Why is there a child in my flat?"

I lifted my head to see that the tips of his wings were slightly flared- he was annoyed. The bonus of wings- emotion indicators.

"It was either this or my flat, and she's allergic to cats." Molly said bravely, and I gave her a smile. She obviously though the world of this man, and I didn't really blame her- he would have had to be brilliant.

"Don't you have a girlfriend or something you can take her to?" the man asked John exasperatedly. John just sighed and shook his head before starting up a quiet conversation with Molly.

**xXx**

_My goal is to get at least one review per chapter. Will you help my dream come true?_

_Ta-ta (for now),  
LoS _:D


	5. The Name's Sherlock Holmes

Don't own because then I... uh... would have a shorter hiatus for season 4?

**xXx**

_Thanks to all those that have followed this.  
This list is made up of the lovely ALuckyStrikerNurse, gorgeous Geekygeek, captivating Cantuono,  
kindhearted JustKloePlease, __adored curiously. adorable and _my best friend- The Ghostly Horse.  
And an extra-special thanks to ALuckyStrikerNurse and Cantuono, who also favourited.

**xXx**

"Rude," I muttered. The man heard me.

"What was that?" he asked, turning to face me. He didn't seem angry, just slightly amused. The tips of his wings had relaxed, and now he was more bored than irritated. Oh, how I hated being confined to a ten-year-old's from. All the things I wanted to say but couldn't without seeming like a child prodigy.

"Rude," I repeated, louder. He gave a small smile. "You're boring. I've never met anyone as boring as you. John's much more interesting," I told him, drawing the attention of the other two occupants of the room. I tilted my head.

"Why is a ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp when he should be favouring his shoulder living in an apartment with a skull?" I asked him rhetorically, and his smile grew. Screw not seeming like a child prodigy- this was much more fun.

"Oh, I like you," he said. I gave an exaggerated bow, my arms out at the sides like a bird. John gave a groan as Molly looked between the two of us, confused.

"Oh, not another one. How did you figure that out, then?" John asked me in a resigned tone. He seemed to get the whole older-than-I-look thing, and didn't baby me as much as Molly. Or that could just be his character.

"You forgot about it," I told him. He frowned, his brow creasing.

"Forgot about what?" he asked.

"The limp," I said, rolling my eyes- people, Beings and humans alike, could be so stupid. What else would I be talking about?

John raised his eyebrows, wanting an elaboration, and I refrained from sighing, choosing instead to oblige.

"You forgot about the limp when you waited in line, you kept on rolling your shoulder while you drank your coffee and the cane's on the wrong side, we've already established Afghanistan and your cane has the words 'Dr John Watson' etched on it." I said smugly, sounding rather like Hermione Granger from Harry Potter.

The man with the wings seemed rather excited about something- he was almost literally jumping out of his seat, and his wings were pulled in tight with the tips held out. I would take a guess that it would be me, but I didn't particularly care. John gave me an easy-going smile, but Molly was biting her lip and looking at her watch.

"Have you got something planned?" I asked her, before realising. "Oh, yes, I'm not officially alive yet."

"Not officially alive?!" John said in indignation, and Molly flinched. I wondered if her parents were still together- had their arguments ever come to blows?

The man, however, just seemed to be even more excited. "What do you mean, you're not officially alive?" he asked me, his blue-grey eyes alight in curiosity.

I shrugged- it could be worse. I could be paralysed, have amnesia, gone into a child, like the angel in the man had- I was actually rather lucky that my only major problems were having no guardian and not officially being alive. God, I was using that phrase a lot, wasn't I?

"I hit my head," I said, frowning. I closed my eyes, trying to recall what had occurred to the ten-year-old. Kayla didn't know much of what happened, and I was using her memories. She'd hit her head, it had gone black, then I woke up. My eyes flew open. "I died, I suppose. Then I woke up in a body bag."

John seemed appalled, but the man was watching me in, almost, fascination. Molly and John started talking, probably about what they should do with me, again, and the man put his hands back into the prayer position. He started gazing somewhere to the left of me. I sighed aloud. I couldn't just call him 'the man' anymore. It was getting ridiculous.

"You- perchy one." I said, pointing to him and snapping my fingers. "What is your name?"

He shook his head, slightly irritated at being disrupted from his thoughts, and, once again, directed his blue-grey gaze towards me. However, this time, I folded my arms and glared back, an eyebrow raised. He did a jump-like manoeuvre so that he was sitting in the chair and gave a smirk.

"Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to make your acquaintance." he said, his baritone voice ringing with amusement.

**xXx**

_I have actually been asked for my name like this. A girl looked at me, frowned, then said, 'you- the one that's perching- what's your name?' I was quite amused. It's my own fault- I go on my tip-toes while on a chair and sit on my heels. I have never fallen off. But Sherlock has an advantage: he has wings. Review and help my dream come true? If you don't know my dream, then it is to get at least one review per chapter. I don't mean the same amount of reviews as chapters; I mean at least one review left on each chapter. Please? _

_What did you think of my Sherlock? Is he too smug? Too human? Too... emotion-thingy? He gets excited about experiments and crime scenes and such, and he's kind of viewing Kayla as an experiment, so do you think he'd act like this?_

_Ta-ta (for now),  
LoS _:D


	6. The Forgotten Name of an Angel

Don't own because... I'm... not yet 14. I have to wait until Hallowe'en Eve  
(It exists. It's All Hallows Evening Eve. The night before All Hallows Evening.)

**xXx**

_This story has seven reviews.  
__**Seven.**__  
I am so happy- this is the most amount of reviews I have ever gotten for a story!  
*throws a party*  
*sits back down, wearing a lop-sided party hat*  
No, seriously, I am so, so happy.  
Thank you to all my lovelies that reviewed!_

**xXx**

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" I said, eyebrow still raised.

He gave a chuckle. "If you like."

"Well then, I'm- Kayla Robinson, I suppose." I said, faltering slight at the name. I was most certainly not Kayla Robinson. I was an angel, an incredible being from the heavens, 60 thousand years or so old, and I had wings. I could fly. Kayla Robinson was not that. Nor was she all that intelligent. Each angel was named for their traits at birth, and I- my thoughts stuttered to a stop, annoyance replaced by cold shock. I couldn't remember my name. I couldn't remember anyone's name. Not my mothers, not my fathers, nor my best friend's! What was my name?! Why couldn't I remember?! My panic must have showed on my face because John came to stand in front of me, a worried look on his face.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice soft.

"No, I shan't think so." I said, my voice the same volume as his, but borderline hysterical. I can't remember my name! I wanted to shout, but I decided to blame the panic on something else, something that was perhaps just as important.

"Where will I go?!" I cried, my thoughts somewhat chaotic, searching for my name, anyone's name, but in the forefront of my mind, I was devoted to acting this piece out.

Now, distressed... shaky breaths or crying quietly, as to not disrupt anything, worried, high-pitched tone... posture would be, uh... self-soothing, arms around middle, but what was my name?! What was my brother's name? I mentally slapped myself. My name was not important. Well, it was, but not at the moment. At the moment, I needed to find somewhere to stay, because I had the feeling that a perfectly healthy ten-year-old girl living on the streets would be enough to draw suspicion to other-worldly powers.

Details... I needed details. Kayla's mother was dead, but what of her father... sailor, never returned. Both parents were single children, and their parents had passed away before her birth. Therefore, I had no-where to go. Kayla didn't particularly like any of the family friends, and had avoided them at all costs. Ok, I had the information, I had the acting. Now for the manipulation.

"Mummy's dead, Father was lost at sea. I can't live alone! John, where am I going to go?" I implored, eyes wide and pleading, my arms wrapped around my midriff. His eyes softened and his aura radiated a feeling of acceptance. Good. So if there was nowhere for me to go, John would take me in.

Molly seemed somewhat startled at the knowledge of my mother's death, Sherlock was uncomfortable with the situation, and, seemingly, emotion as a whole. John, however, was relatively calm. I guess that would be your default reaction to death after being a doctor in a war-zone.

"We'll find somewhere." He said, giving me a soft smile. I wanted to believe him, I really did, but I'd seen London, and there weren't that many families willing to take care of someone other than themselves. The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed that John and Sherlock (even if the raven-haired man would only agree so that he could study me (I would have to do something about that)) would be the only people willing to take me in. I nodded, nonetheless.

John turned to Molly. "Does she need to be there?"

She nodded, an odd, jerky gesture. "Yes, she'll need to undergo a medical examination and we'll have to explain the situation. I was rather hoping you'd come with, if you don't mind."

Well, I certainly didn't mind. John knew what he was doing, and any child would prefer someone they had a somewhat basic knowledge of to be present at anything to do with doctors. Not to mention I was growing rather attached to the jumper-clad blonde.

"That'd be fine, Molly." John said, his easy-going smile back. "You coming, Sherlock?" he asked the pale man, who had once again adopted his, you know what, I'm just going to call it his, 'thinking pose'. Sherlock was in his thinking pose, curled up like a cat on the chair, his wings tucked in. He lazily opened one eye.

"Sure, why not? No-one's died recently-" John coughed, rather loudly, and Sherlock got an expression that could only be described as guilty. "Well, yes, alright. I'll come."

John sent an apologetic glance towards me as Sherlock wrapped a scarf around his neck and turned up his coat collar. I blinked slowly at him to say that it was alright, and he turned back to Sherlock with a huff, to discover he was already at the door.

"Coming, Molly?" he said to the lady, who had moved on to examine a sheet of music.

She blushed. "Oh, yes, sorry."

Five minutes later, in which Sherlock and I received a hug from Mrs Hudson, hailed two cabs, and I somehow convinced John and Molly to let me go with Sherlock, we were on our way to St Bart's. I had the rather expected feeling that the ride was, in rather dull terms, going to be interesting.

**xXx **

_It's so long! My longest chapter yet! *puffs out chest, then remembers that it is actually rather short*. Yeah... sorry to all those that actually read this story for the shortness of the chapters. I have drawn a picture especially for you, Ghostly H, and it is bea-u-tiful. According to the people at my school, at least. Review?_

_Ta-ta (for now),  
LoS _:D


	7. Deductions in a Taxi

Don't own. Geez.

**xXx**

_Also: ELEVEN REVIEWS! I have gotten into the double digits!  
I'd like to thank all those that have reviewed for your support, my mum for getting me the computer, my dad for allowing me internet access, my sister for not bothering me, my brother for ignoring my existence, my friends for listening to me go on and on about the plot bunnies, and again everyone that has reviewed, followed, faved and read.  
__Please, and I cannot stress this enough, **please**, if you read a story and you like it or want it to be improved, leave a review.  
They are worth more than money to us fan-fic writers, because we don't get any $$$ for writing these.  
We write these purely for your and our enjoyment, and your feedback is worth more than anything._

**xXx**

"So." the pale man said in a bored tone, his baritone breaking the silence of the cab, "What can you deduce about me?"

My eyes flickered over his attire, adding the information gathered there to the reactions to the conversations and the things seen at the flat. He went out of the way to cover his skin, fear of being injured, damaged? Was that metaphorical? Didn't eat much, he probably forgot, he didn't seem one to starve himself. He didn't do 'emotions', but had some understanding of them. He worked with corpses, judging by his earlier comment, and there had been scientific equipment in his flat.

Forensic Scientist? I'd say detective, but that also worked with the psychological side of things, and, well, he didn't seem to suit it. The sheets of music were for a violin, so he played (just like my brother), and the books were rather sophisticated, so he'd gone to a upper-class university.

Oh, and the writing- the letters were small, but slightly messy, and seemed to dart around the pages. Judging from that, he payed attention to detail, didn't seem to have any other people reading what he'd written and had a very fast-working mind. It sort of reminded me of my father- not many other Beings had much much care for the study of human sciences and they, for the most, didn't apply to us, anyway. So that was either forensic scientist or detective, but he didn't seem to be official in either. Was there such thing as a consulting detective?

"Sherlock Holmes... " I paused, trying to get my thoughts into order. "Well, I would hazard a guess at you being either a forensic scientist or, well, a consulting detective. You pay attention to detail, and you do a lot of experiments, judging by the equipment in your flat, but I don't see you as the kind of person to work for anything other than your own benefit." He gave a smirk. Had I been correct so far?

"You are incredibly intelligent, you would have to be, if you went to the university I think you went to. You have a fondness for music, you play the violin, and was the Beethoven's third I saw on the stand?" I flicked my hand, as if waving the thought away, and continued.

"You don't do emotions, though you have some comprehension of them, forget to eat frequently enough, and I'd say John's worried about that- he is a doctor, after all. You..." I faltered, remembering something. Was that a camera in his room? He had seemed to be aware of it, so that meant it was placed there by someone he knew. Brother, perhaps?

I shook my head in annoyance. "You have only recently had John move in with you- up until that point, you avoided socialisation altogether. You have trust issues, preferring to rely upon your senses alone, and you are afraid of being hurt. You have a brother who is probably older than you by eight years or so, who worries about you- he's gone so far as to monitor you 24/7."

I was sure that, had he not had a iron-cast hold on his emotions, he would be picking his chin up from the floor. Instead, he just folded his arms, and looked at me with a smug look on his face, trying to hide the rather obvious shock in his eyes. I smirked. This was much more fun than being a sweet little girl - not that I'd let any one else see anything other than an innocent facade.

The cab pulled up outside the cemented building, and I opened the door to jump onto the pavement. I didn't have any shoes, but Kayla hadn't liked them, so it wouldn't be anything particularly odd.

What would be odd is that the doctors would do an examination on a ten-year-old girl that, despite banging her head on asphalt less than twelve hours prior, being brain-dead for an hour, and waking up naked with a temperature of 37 degrees Celsius wouldn't display any physical or mental indications stating she was anything other than at the peak of health. And that just made my day.

**xXx**

_I do apologise for the shortness of this chapter- it is only a filler, some more interesting things will be happening soon. Leave a review to feed the plot bunny? And - perhaps - get another chapter before next Wednesday? I've decided to update this on 'Saturday' or 'Wednesday' (for all the Aussies or fellow Kiwis, that's Sunday and Thursday - blame the time difference), so that I still have time for other things._

_Also, I have received a complaint that Kayla is too much like Sherlock, too young. OK: 1, Kayla, despite looking ten, has the mentality and knowledge of a sixty-thousand year old. 2, said sixty-thousand year old has the maturity of Sherlock- She would learn how to do something just to piss off the aristocrats. 3, the next chapter has an explanation. Well, not really, but if you are clever, you will be able to figure it out. Let's just say that the Being in Sherlock is not unknown by my lovely O.C._

_Ta-ta (for now),  
LoS _:D


	8. Everything is Totally Normal

Don't own because... I'm not male. That's legit.

**xXx**

I sat on the examination table, my legs swinging back and forth. I was bored. John had gone to look over some paperwork with Molly, and Sherlock was irritating some doctors with his deductions about their love-life. The one that had being doing the majority of the tests was married with two kids and had a rag-doll kitten that his wife had bought and the nurse that was hovering by his shoulder was engaged but having an affair with the secretary.

As soon as he'd noticed these things, Sherlock had smirked, and proceeded to tell them so. The nurse had blushed, but remained silent, and the doctor had cast a wary look over at the raven-haired detective before going back to his tests.

Sherlock had then proceeded to smile smugly while I subjected myself to being prodded and poked by cold fingers and metals alike for an hour or so, the majority of which was almost over. Which was a good thing, I'm certain of it.

After being examined by 5 different doctors, all with very cold hands, I was declared to be at 'the epitome of a healthy ten-year-old, though she could do with eating more'. Which I found rather amusing, seeing as Kayla had always been teetering on the edge of underweight, and had been far shorter then the average height.

The doctors hadn't seemed to notice that the girl they had been examining for most of her life had grown six centimetres and gained two kilograms in under a month. I was pretty sure that that wasn't normal, though I wasn't going to point it out. I was already tired of the pristine white room that smelled of disinfection five minutes in and couldn't fathom why anyone would inform the white-coats of something that would make them required to stay longer.

This was why, as soon as John entered the room, I jumped off the table and ran over to him to tug on his hand and ask, "May we please leave now?" in a pleading tone.

John gave me a smile. As did Molly, who had entered just after him. I turned to face Sherlock, who was still sitting on the chair, his eyes rapidly moving across the files with my medical records that the doctor had 'accidentally' left on the table. He appeared to be muttering quietly to himself; most likely reading the contents of the document aloud to see what conclusions he could draw.

"What does it say?" I asked him, but I was ignored.

Sherlock addressed John. "What is Developmental dysplasia of the hip?" he asked and John frowned.

"Clicky hips. Most likely dislocation at birth," he clarified.

Sherlock gave a short nod of recognition then went back to his reading. I sighed. He could have just asked me- Kayla had read about it after her mother had told her, and after 60 thousand years of being alive, one did pick up a few things. My mother had taught me about medical conditions in humans, my father had taught me the sciences, and my brother had taught me, well, everything.

Everything and anything, from reading posture and noticing the small details to music and playing the violin. But I'd never gotten as good as he at playing; he knew all of Mozart's pieces by heart and learnt how to play Beethoven by ear. At one point, he had created a concoction of pieces, all mixed together, that made the most beautiful of sounds. And that had become his mark. His one sign of himself, that set him apart from all the rest. I hadn't found mine, though I wasn't too bad at the flute.

It was at this point I realised I had been staring off into the distance and that John had been trying to get my attention for somewhere close to five minutes. I blinked and shook my head, trying to escape from my reverie. I looked past John's somewhat worried face to find Sherlock looking at me with an indecipherable look on his face. His eyes seemed to be asking an unspoken question that I was sure that everyone who knew, even John and Molly, had thought at one point: Why aren't you dead?

And I'm not sure I entirely knew myself. Of all the people in the world, all the children that had died at that point in time, why Kayla Robinson? It was a question that no-one, living or Being, knew the answer to. And, to tell you the truth, I didn't think anyone ever would.

**xXx**

_Me neither, Kayla, me neither. And I still don't._

_Well... the update days didn't last very long! Let us just say either Friday or Saturday- I've run out of pre-written chapters at this point, so I'm left having to actually **write** stuff. And I have an excuse! I've joined the local musician's group which goes from 5:30 - '6:30'. Yeah. It doesn't. So... Thursdays no longer exist outside of music and school. :(_

_Ta-ta (for now),  
LoS _:D


	9. Smashing Cameras with Brooms

Don't own this... amazingness. I am but the puppeteer, playing with borrowed dolls. But not Kayla. Kayla is mine. _My preciousssss._

**xXx**

_So... I made a deal with Ghostly. If she replied before Friday, I would post another chapter when I received her reply. Here you go, Ghostly. And all those that have been waiting for the next chapter. Sorry, there's this thing called life... Also, I have fifteen reviews! Throw a party!_

**xXx**

It turns out that John had managed to gain custody of me temporarily, to my disbelief. I'd only known the man for a few hours (had it really only been that long? It seemed like days) but I had been entrusted in his care without any delay. Dare I suspect higher powers coming into play here?

Not the angel sort - the major-position-in-the-government sort. But I couldn't for the life of me (as long as it was) think of who it might be. I had reason to suspect Sherlock's coldness ran in the family- even if it was his brother that was pulling strings, what would he stand to gain by placing me with John?

My inner turmoil over my custodial placement could not be seen from the outside- in fact, the only person I'd met so far that would even have the slightest idea of what was going through my head was Sherlock, who had, apparently, been deducing the lives of others since he could talk. This didn't surprise me- my brother had been much the same.

I, however, had been gifted with what tact I had from my mother, whose name still escaped me. I was still scared at the thought of my lost memories, but this was far from the initial mind-numbing shock I had felt at this revelation.

Due to my thoughts, the majority of the cab ride home was spent in silence. Molly had opted to remain at the hospital, leaving me, Sherlock and John to catch a single cab home. Having run out of things that wouldn't cause me emotional pain to consider, I took to examining the taxi driver. His hair and stature seemed rather familiar, almost identical to that of the man who had knocked me over in the cafe. But of course, then I had to glimpse in the mirror, How right I was.

"You right there, sweetheart?" he asked in an Irish drawl. I gave a sickeningly sweet smile in return.

"Fine, thank you, sir." I said, narrowing my eyes.

He smirked, as if to say, 'Oh, I'll have fun with you.' And I had almost no doubt he would.

"Everything alright?" John asked, breaking out of whatever oneirism he had entered.

I nodded as the cab slowed, coming to a halt outside 221B. I stood back as John unlocked the flat, then ran in ahead of him, dodging the landlady and dashing up the stairs, taking two at a time. When I reached the top, I cast my gaze towards the corner of the ceiling. Yes, there it was- a camera, directed at the area in front of the door to 221b. I cocked my head- was this Sherlock's brother's doing?

John, who had at this point arrived behind me, followed my line of sight before giving a soft, 'oh'.

He turned to call down the stairs, "Sherlock! You missed one!"

The detective in question came up the stairs at a leisurely pace and, once arriving at the landing, cast a scowl towards the camera in question.

"There's always one," he bemoaned in a whisper and I giggled. He scowled at me and I smirked.

I looked back at the camera, which had turned to face me; signifying that someone was watching.

I raised an eyebrow. "Your brother?" I questioned Sherlock and he reluctantly nodded before beginning to sulk – he couldn't reach the camera.

John was watching us with an amused air. I decided the cause of his amusement was most probably because I was so much like the esteemed detective. Either that, or because he had fond memories regarding the sibling rivalry.

"What does he do?" I asked John, as Sherlock had decided us unworthy of speech.

"He holds- wait, what was it? Oh, yes, a 'minor position in the government'" he said, putting verbal quotation marks around the, 'minor position in the government'.

I had very strong doubts that the position Sherlock's brother held would be anything under extremely powerful. John and I went into 221b as Sherlock gave a triumphant cry; he'd managed to smash the lens in with a broom.

**xXx**

_Awesomeness happens in the next chapter. I promise..._

_Ta-ta (for now),  
LoS _:D


	10. We Belong in a Mental Institute

Good gummi-bears, guys! I don't own it! But thanks.

**xXx**

After we entered the flat, Sherlock had strolled past us and sat down in his chair, before adopting his 'thinking pose'. John gave him a long-suffering look that Sherlock didn't see – his eyes were closed – and moved into the kitchen to make some tea. I followed, unsure of what to do – how was one supposed to act around care-givers that they had only known for a few hours? However, John seemed to sense my inner turmoil, and poured me a glass of milk, which I took gratefully – I was parched.

Once he'd made the tea, John glanced towards Sherlock before beckoning me out the door and up the stairs to what I assumed to be his bedroom.

My assumptions were proved correct when the ex-army-doctor opened the door to reveal a rather bare room. He didn't have many belonging compared to Sherlock – his clothes were all neatly in the drawers, he most likely kept his suits in the wardrobe, and all that was on his bed-side table was a lamp and a book.

John moved over to sit on the neatly-made bed, taking a sip of his tea and giving a relieved sigh. I hovered in the doorway, unsure of what to do. How was it that all my courage had fled when I saw the camera? I shook my head, frustrated with myself, and snatched a pillow off the bed before seating myself firmly on the floor.

John raised an eyebrow. "You ok there?" he asked, and I nodded. I didn't have any tactical advantages while on the floor facing the bed, but then again, I didn't have many anyway; I was a ten-year old.

John seemed somewhat satisfied with my decision. "So, how did you do that? Back there, I mean."

By 'back there', I would wager a guess that he meant what I'd deduced about his past. I decided to tell the truth.

"With ease."

John giggled, but it soon turned into a full on, deep-bellied laugh. I quirked an eyebrow. He didn't strike me as one to giggle, but then again, I hadn't expected Sherlock to be a forgotten Being.

After the good doctor had recovered, he took small sips of his tea, giggling every now and then.

"Finished?" I asked. John nodded, grinning into his cup. At that moment, and it was rather ridiculous, but he reminded me of a hedgehog. I chose not to tell him – if he had another laughing fit, he'd disrupt Sherlock.

I finished my milk, reaching up to put the mug on John's bedside table. He finished his tea soon after, and shrugged before placing his beside mine.

"Wanna go out for dinner?" he asked, then blushed and elaborated, "We don't have any food. Sherlock keeps using it for his experiments."

I gave a nod. "Yeah. I probably need the sun."

John looked like he was going to agree, then seemed to think better of it. I stood, reaching for his hand, and he clasped it in his warmer one, rubbing feeling into mine. I hadn't noticed how cold I was.

We walked down the stairs, taking care not to stand on the noisy ones, to the bottom floor, where John received a kiss on the cheek from Mrs Hudson, I received a hug and we were given a 'Be careful'.

However, as soon as we stepped out of the building, a black car pulled up alongside Speedy's. The window rolled down to reveal a young-looking woman with dark hair who seemed entirely focused on her blackberry.

My eyes darted over her- right handed, apparently engaged but this was most likely only to stop flirtatious advances, probably close to as observational as Sherlock, wears contacts to disguise features more than just the make-up would allow, very tech-savvy, but most of the time spent on the blackberry is an illusion of being off-guard.

John rolled his eyes. "I don't suppose I can tell her to go inside?" he questioned.

The lady gave him a fake smile and shook her head. John shook his head also and opened the door for me. I hesitated - though he would know the abductor, he should be more wary of the situation. The lady looked up from the phone and gave me a reassuring nod. I sighed and stepped into the vehicle, scooting over into the middle seat. John followed.

As we began driving, I noticed the distinct lack of people staring or wondering why we were just forced into a car. I gave a small laugh, and the lady cast me an odd look.

"What?" John asked, a smile playing around his lips.

I took a deep breath. "We just got..." I laughed again, "taken **off the street**," I stressed the words, "forced into a black car, and-" John started giggling at this point, "no-one thinks it's even the slightest bit odd!"

We burst into peals of laughter, the lady staring at us like lunatics and the driver wondering whether we belonged in a mental institute. And I'm not sure what it says about our sanity, but once we arrived in the abandoned warehouse, John and I started laughing again.

**xXx**

_Oh, gosh. Well, my week has gone brilliantly *sarcasm* and I hope that you can't tell. Fanfiction is meant to be my way of releasing, but no-one likes reading depressing stories because the writer has had a bad day. So there. Hope you enjoyed, the next chapter will be posted on Saturday for the Aussies and Kiwis and Friday-ish for the Brits and Americans and all the other people that are reading this that live on the other side. Aka all those dead people that have internet access. Hey, do you reckon there's internet in heaven? Jk, jk. But there better be. Reason for a bad week? NAPLAN, school, homework, life. Sozzy._

_Will they meet Mycroft? Will Kayla stop being so thick and realise that Sherlock is - Sorry, these two words have been removed due to extreme spoilers - ?_

_Ta-ta (for now),_  
_LoS_ :D


	11. Umbrella-Boy is Not Amused

No Own

**xXx**

_You: *gasp!* An early chapter? LoS, how you spoil us so!_

_Me: No problem, random reader! __Revel in the earliness of chapter 11!_

**xXx**

The man in the warehouse was not so amused. He walked towards us, his umbrella clicking against the stone floor. He gave a thin-lipped smile as John rightened himself and gave the man an easy-going salute. He dipped his head in turn, showing the slightly balding patches, most likely from stress rather than age. He turned to me and gave a fake smile. I gave an equally faked smile in return, though I felt that I did it better.

"Doctor Watson," the man said in greeting, "Do sit."

He gestured to the chair, and John gave a sigh before sitting down in it. Out of courtesy, I noticed, rather than any real need for it. I elected to remain standing- despite the man's mid-grey white-speckled aura, he didn't seem very safe. His stature seemed to radiate danger, but he maintained a facade of ease.

"Kayla," he said smoothly, and it took me a moment to realise he was talking to me, "how are you, my dear?"

His voice was low, and seemed to cry out 'Trust me! Trust me!' But I wasn't going to play by his rules.

"Oh, you know," I said in a light voice, staring beyond his shoulder at a crack in the wall, "I'm doing pretty well. I mean, considering I died, almost suffocated upon awakening and am now stuck living with your brother and the good doctor here, I'm doing pretty well. Oh, and will you wish me a happy birthday?" I asked in an exuberant voice, seemingly as an afterthought.

The man blinked rapidly before giving me a thin-lipped smile. "But of course," he said in an unperturbed tone, "Happy birthday, Kayla."

John seemed to be in shock. He blinked, as the man did (gosh, now there was another one? I really needed to learn people's name faster), though he then turned to face me, his face pale.

"It's your- " he closed his eyes and took a breath before continuing, "it's your birthday?"

I looked at him, my eyebrows furrowed. "Yes," I said, confused. What did that matter? I stopped paying attention to birthdays around the twenty-thousand year mark, which was much longer than most. It didn't make anything any different, becoming a year older, nor did the day mean anything in particular.

"What does it matter?" I asked, voicing my confusion. I then internally slapped myself. Despite what I thought, most ten-year-olds looked forward to birthdays, regarding them as a day of celebration. What were they celebrating anyway, surviving one more year?

"What does it- what does it matter?" asked John, his voice incredulous, "It's- it's your birthday, Kayla!"

"Yes, what about it? It doesn't mean anything, really. Just that I've survived another year, which really, when you think about it, I haven't," I pointed out, and John took a deep breath.

The man was watching us with an air of amusement, and surely enough, he had a smug smile playing around the corners of his lips.

"Bien dieu!" I cried, "I cannot keep referring to you as 'The Man'! You, umbrella boy-" I said, clicking my fingers and pointing towards the man, "what's your name?"

The man looked affronted before giving me another tight smile. "Apologies. My name is Mycroft Holmes. I'm Sherlock's brother, as you said." I gave a short nod.

"Any reason why we are still here?" John asked, his fingers tapping on the arm of his chair.

"Not at all," Mycroft said easily, "Anthea will provide you with transportation to your flat."

John nodded in agreement, standing. He took my hand in his – why was it that I was so cold? - and we walked towards the car. We were back at 221B within minutes.

**xXx**

_Kayla has finally met Mycroft! Sorry for the perilously slow updates but I have long since reached the end of my written chapters and am now having to write them before posting._

The way to a fan-fic writer's heart: through her review count.

The way to Mycroft's heart: telling him he doesn't need to diet and can eat cake if he wants.

_Ta-ta (for now),_  
_LoS_ :D

_PS: I hate how Sherlock bullies Mycroft. It's not funny, it's really mean. My brother calls me fat and I am now over-sensitive to the amount of food I am eating, despite the fact that I don't weigh over 40kg. At least, I didn't the last time I checked..._

_Yeah, it may be fiction to you, but it's real to me_ -_-


	12. There is a Distinct Lack of Jam

Me no own. But still, thanks. However, something I do own is the cover image, which I drew. You like?

**xXx**

_Guys. I should really come up with a name for you lot so that I'm less... gender-specific.  
Thinglings? That sounds really cute.  
Someones? Because I'm Lady of Something...  
Awesomenauts? Because Something is awesome.  
Subjects? I am a lady...  
Opinions in reviews?  
_

_Never mind. Onto the message._

_I have 22 reviews. **A whole 22 reviews. **Do you know what this means?!_

_I can throw a party!_

_*runs off screaming about cake and streamers.*  
*comes back to the keyboard? letterboard? with a cake in both hands.*_

_See, Sherlock? It can be done._

_Thank you so much for your feedback, faves and follows. You have no idea what it means to me.  
Well, you might, but that's all relative, I suppose..._

**xXx**

"Why doesn't your birthday matter?" John asked me over our Chinese take-away an hour or so later.

Sherlock had still been in his thinking mode upon our arrival back at the flat, so John had prepared a plate of takeaway for him to eat later, if he did at all. The food was being stored in the fridge, something I had yet to see the inside of. Was there severed heads in there or something?

I paused for a moment. I wasn't exactly sure how to answer that. I normally refused to think about why I had chosen to give up birthdays but, of course, the subject was now unavoidable.

"My friend... left. On my birthday. I never saw her again." I said haltingly.

Ok, it wasn't exactly the truth - but it was pretty close. Kayla's friend had left the day after her birthday and they had kept an e-mail correspondence, but John didn't need to know that. Neither did he need to know the real reason I had stopped.

"Oh," he said softly. We ate for a few minutes in silence.

However, despite how I may have appeared, inside I was mourning. My brother had been the only person that had cared about my birthday, so when he disappeared- I'd stopped. I'd stopped celebrating another year I was still Above, I'd stopped my learnings, I'd stopped socialising. I had descended into as close to depression as Beings were capable of.

My brother had been my life. He had been my best friend, my only confident and, despite the fact he was around twice my age, he'd put up with me. He'd cared for me. And then he fell. I'd decided that if I ever fell also, I would try to find him. We'd even come up with a plan as to how we would locate each other, but I couldn't recall it just then.

And later that night, once John had wished me good dreams, I remembered the plan.

'Ok, then, if that doesn't work, I'll become a violinist,' my brother had insisted, and I'd laughed. I was only around five thousand then. I'd been so naïve.

'You can't be a violinist!' I'd told him, and he had faked a confused face.

'Why on earth not?' he had asked, tickling me and I laughed again.

'Violinists are girls down There!' I'd told him, and he'd laughed at me.

'I'll be a special violinist. I'll be the only one in the world like me, and at every concert, I'll play my Mark, just for you." he'd promised, and I'd nodded.

'I'll find you,' I'd sworn, 'but what about me?'

He'd then smiled. 'I'll always find you, no matter what.'

I fell asleep and dreamt of a young man with curly brown hair and sapphire blue eyes, his grey wings pulled tight, playing with a younger girl that had pixie-cut black hair and green eyes, her pale grey wings extended. I fell asleep and remembered my brother.

**oOo**

The next morning, I discovered that Kayla didn't like eggs. Or cereal. Or jam. In fact, she only ate buttered toast for breakfast, which amused Sherlock to no end. John, however, was mourning the lack of strawberries in the jam jar.

Sherlock, it turns out, had awoken from his thinking coma some time around 3am and had then proceeded to play the violin. The playing had somehow mingled with my dreams, and I had slept on. John had been woken up, and decided that wrestling the taller man would be a good idea. It wasn't a good idea.

Mrs Hudson, who came to visit us at breakfast, had been endeared to me instantly, mainly because I was eating my buttered bread without dropping crumbs and had yet to wake her up in the middle of the night via violin or a wrestling match.

Sherlock wasn't very happy that he'd been replaced as favourite. I had taken great delight in giving him a smirk as Mrs Hudson exited the flat without trying to hug him, to which he responded with his tongue sticking out.

This, in turn, amused John, enough to make him forget about his lack of jam, and he wasted no time in taking a photograph, which Sherlock then tried (unsuccessfully) to delete. All in all, a very eventful morning.

**xXx**

_So, what exactly happened? Well, there was a reference to the body parts in the fridge, more information about her brother (come on, you guys. Can you see what she can't?) and an actual mental image of her brother! And what she looked like, but that's nothing._

_We also have a reference to the head-canon that John adores jam, a reference to the original stories where Sherlock was a wrestler and more proof that Sherlock is a child. All in all, a very eventful chapter._

_Catch you later,  
LoS _:D

_I'm considering using this as a sign-off for my Sherlock stories. Should I use this, or just keep my T-t (fn)?_


	13. Forgotten Dust and Feathers Fallen

Jeeze, guys!

I know I'm brilliant but there is no way I'd be able to think coherently around Benedict Cumberbatch.

**xXx**

_27 reviews?! You guys (darnit! I did it again! Thinglings or Awesomenauts? If you don't tell me in your review then I will just call you my subjects. Or peasants) really wanted this early chapter. Speaking of early, sorry it's so late - internet hated me. Homework adores me. Can you see which one I preferred to be around?_

_Here you go, Ghostly - it's longer. Not very much longer, but there's still an -er suffix._

**xXx**

However, the relatively easy-going behaviour was not to last. Around 10 am, Sherlock had effectively given up on deleting the photo and had taken to fiddling around with the hand-gun. The safety was off, of course. John had gone shopping, leaving me with the falsely sociopathic man, if he could be called that. He was more childlike than any child I had met.

Around 5 minutes after John had left, Sherlock had taken to tossing the gun up in the air and catching it again, and I had had enough.

"So, what can you deduce about me?" I asked, and Sherlock froze before smiling.

"Everything, naturally," he said smugly in his baritone voice, "You were born and raised in London, mainly by your mother – your father, while loving you both dearly, I'm sure, spent most of his time at sea, eventually meeting his fate there. You did celebrate birthdays, no matter what you told John, not because you enjoy getting older but because you've survived another year. Someone close to you has died relatively recently, making you really notice the fact that people do die, and you don't like any of the family friends, mainly because they treat you like you're stupid."

"Your mother died yesterday while trying to save you – a failed attempt, by the way, as you still died – but you don't feel any particular guilt over her death. You loved her but you aren't mourning her and that might make you just like me – a very good actor."

I froze. I closed my eyes very slowly, taking a deep breath. Another time, another person, another loved one lost and almost the same words came floating back to me and I remembered something.

'You loved her,' my brother told me after _she_ had Fallen, 'but you aren't mourning her.'

My best friend, my only friend had Fallen, leaving me up There with only my brother. I'd loved her but she would never love me back – better to admire from afar than be rejected was my point of view. But once she'd gone I'd only wished I'd told her.

'I think that you're just like me,' he'd said with a bitter smile and a hug.

'A very good actor,' my brother told me, for he'd lost _him_ also. And I cried into his shoulder, shuddering silently.

Then, I forgot. Like one would dust in the breeze, a fallen feather or a stranger seen once, I forgot. And it was as if it had never existed in the first place.

I blinked rapidly then jumped back. One thing I had not expected to see upon opening my eyes was Sherlock's face – well, more his eyes, staring into mine. He looked as if he was going to laugh at me, for I had fallen off the armrest of John's chair, then seemed to think better of it and cleared his throat. I made an odd noise through my nose then jumped up, shaking myself. Sherlock gave a slight smile at my antics, his wings stretching out, then looked to the side.

"You have... something, just there," he said, pointing to his cheek as a demonstration.

I reached up to touch my face; it was wet with tears I never knew I had shed. What was this from? I couldn't remember crying. What would I have to cry about? Probably many things.

"Tea?" Sherlock offered. I gave a nod and he moved past me into the kitchen, moving gracefully.

"You would be good at dancing," I told him, and he turned to me.

"What do you mean?" he asked, as if confused.

I rolled my eyes. "You know, ballroom dancing," I elaborated. And to my surprise, he blushed.

"I... can'tdance," he mumbled. I only just heard the words, and I grinned widely.

"You can't dance?!" I asked incredulously, my childish voice making it seem like a tease.

"No, I can't dance!" Sherlock said, throwing his hands in the air. ((A.N: I throw my hands up in the air sometimes, saying ayo, I'm an angel. No? Mom? Ghostly? Cantuono? AC? Mango? Signos? LuckyNurse? Random Guest? Just me? Also, can we welcome mango to our small group of Rs&Rs, please.))

"What does it matter anyway? It's not like it will save my life, or anyone else's! It only makes sense to keep things in my brain that are useful, and dancing is not one of those things!" he said, irritated. I couldn't keep myself from grinning.

I ran over to him, avoiding his outstretched wing, and grabbed his cold hand in my equally cold one, tugging him into the lounge room. I pulled the table to the side of the room – for her size, Kayla was actually rather strong. Moving back toward the nonplussed Sherlock, I got up on the chair so that I was almost his height and grabbed his hands, putting one on my shoulder and the other one around my waist.

"This is where the hands go," I told him, and he nodded. I removed his hands and jumped off the table.

"A waltz is simple. You just rotate in a circle, moving your feet in time to the music. It's three four, by the way," I said and he rolled his eyes.

"Hey! You are the one that's saving someone's life with this, you'd better pay attention!" I chastised and he went along with my demands with an amused air.

He started slowly rotating on the spot but even to me he looked strange. I jumped off the table and walked over to his violin. Once seeing my actions, he stopped, walked quickly over to the instrument, picking it up before I could.

"Hey!" I shouted, jumping up, trying to reach the violin, "I want to play a waltz!"

Sherlock paused. "You can play?" he asked smoothly, his voice belying none of the surprise his upright wings told me he felt.

"Of course!" I said, affronted. ((A.N: I can play a waltz... and could when I was ten.))

He hesitantly lowered the violin, and I grabbed it off him gently but eagerly. It was too big for me but I didn't mind. I propped it up on my shoulder and moved my chin onto the rest. Picking up the bow, I moved out my fingers and began playing a simple waltz. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and I poked my tongue out, finishing the bar then beginning a more complicated andante tune. He nodded, somewhat impressed, then began practising his dancing with me adding tips every now and then. Next we would move onto some fancier moves.

John was in for a surprise when he got home.

**xXx**

_Reminder to vote for either Thingling or Awesomenauts unless you want to be my subjects! I'd say peasants but y'all are reading this so I won't be that mean. Signos voted for Thinglings (well, you mentioned it... so it's a vote) and if there are NO votes whatsoever but someone says no to Thinglings then you will be my subjects. I'd make a poll for this but I'm a part of t__h__e procrastinators club. It doesn't exist yet, but it will... tomorrow._

_My... Rs&Rs (people that read and review... somewhat... constantly - I need a name for you guys!) at the moment are: The Ghostly Horse, Cantuono, ALuckyStrikerNurse, AC. Boo-Yah, Signos the great, Guest (A) and Guest (B) as well as our new member, mangofeeesh, who reviews a lot of my other stories... sort of. Yup, we're pretty much a club! Welcome to the Fallen Angels, and would you like some feels? They're free! *big smile and a thumbs up*_

_Catch you later,  
LoS _:D


	14. Not Bothering to Don a Coat

Don't own it, guys! I'm sorry, please don't hurt me!

**xXx**

_I promised and you provided. Thanks so much, thinglings! Yes, it won :D_

**xXx**

My predictions were accurate. At the moment John walked into the flat, I was teaching Sherlock how to pirouette – he was very good at it. He would tuck his wings up with so much control one would assume he was still aware of them, then spin twice, the tips flared so that he wouldn't lose his balance. However, John had to choose the one time where Sherlock fell over to enter the room. Needless to say, John also fell over. Giggling the whole way down.

Sherlock stood up professionally, straitening his, rather smexy, purple top. Yeah, I was currently under-age and he was sort-of my caretaker, but you're forgetting I'm around 60 thousand.

"Kayla was teaching me how to dance," he informed John stiffly a few minutes later. The John in question had abandoned his position on the floor in favour of the chair but was still giggling every few seconds. I raised an eyebrow at the hedge-hog like man. I hadn't yet gotten around to informing of his similarities with the spikey creature but it wouldn't be long yet.

"And how was that going for you?" John asked, amused.

My eyes darted back to Sherlock in order to 'suss out' his reaction.

"Kayla says I have real potential," Sherlock said haughtily. John looked to me for affirmation ((A.N: I actually forgot this word. Not joking- I remembered it just before I uploaded the chapter. I'm that good)) of his statement. I shrugged.

"He's actually a very good dancer," I admitted. Sherlock gave a smug smile and John rolled his eyes at the detective's reaction to my praise.

The hedgehog-lookalike swept his gaze over the room, seemingly appreciative of 'our' (my) attempts to not cause much of a mess. Admittedly, the table had been pulled aside and some stacks of paper had fallen over in one of Sherlock's failed attempts at a leap but it wasn't too bad.

John shrugged. "Hungry?" he asked. At Sherlock's 'why would I be hungry now,of all times?' look, he shrugged again. ((A.N: That's right, he has a look for that :D))

"We have some proper food now," he continued, indicating the bags.

I raised my hand, my palm hovering just above my head. "I am," I said, "and I won't eat if Sherlock doesn't."

Sherlock gave a long suffering sigh and sat down at the 'dining' table, resigned to the fact that he would be eating lunch. John looked at me in shock and I pulled a face that basically meant 'how would I know that would happen?' In reply, he pulled a face that appeared to say, 'you're the child prodigy here.' I gave a short nod and he gave a victorious smile. I rolled my eyes and sat down beside Sherlock.

However, eating was too much of a hope. Just as John placed a small meal in front of us and we had each taken a few mouthfuls (Sherlock was determined to match me bite for bite), a 'ding'ing noise erupted from Sherlock's coat. He stood up rapidly and jumped over the chair to get his mobile. He gave a whoop of joy.

"It's Lestrade!" he called with excitement, "There's been a murder!"

Not even bothering to don his coat, Sherlock rushed out of the flat. I moved over to the window to see him get into a cab, heading toward Oxford. I looked toward John, grateful that I had chosen to wear long pants and a dress-top as opposed to what I had been wearing yesterday.

"Are we expected to follow?" I asked, and John nodded 'yes'.

I grinned. "Let's get going!" and ran downstairs much like the detective did. Except I had my coat.

As I descended the seventeen steps, I began wondering. What were Sherlock's 'colleagues' like? Do they treat him respect, indifference or disgust? Were they actually any good at their job? The latter seemed unlikely, I decided, as John hailed a cab. If they were competent they wouldn't need to call on Sherlock's expertise. I got into the vehicle and, after briefly checking the driver's appearance, continued my stream of thoughts and queries. I was so caught up in my thinking that I failed to notice John peering at me, wondering why I seemed to similar to the detective, and which planet we came from.

**John's POV (That's right, guys, into the viewpoint of our good doctor!)**

Kayla was a mystery to me. She didn't have the viewpoint of a ten-year-old and certainly didn't act it, either. At least, as far as I was aware, she didn't act it. Kayla was actually a very good actor – almost as good as Sherlock, as far as I knew. I made a point not to inform him of this.

Another thing that I wouldn't inform him of, I decided, was the extreme similarities between him and the blonde. They both had astounding skills in deduction and were the only two people I had met, besides Mycroft, that could actually do something with it. In Kayla's case, that was to appear intimidating – truthfully, a girl with bright blue eyes and rose pink lips didn't appear to be able to do much harm.

Something I had noticed, and I took great delight when I realised Sherlock hadn't discovered it, was that Kayla moved... oddly around Sherlock. Like there was something about him only she could see and she was trying to not touch it. It didn't seem dangerous, whatever it was. It was more as if it was deemed polite. But what it could be escaped me.

Aside from the... Sherlockiness of the girl, she didn't seem to bad. She was polite, intelligent and had a good sense of humour. And Kayla also appeared to be a superhero – she got Sherlock to eat. With a few words. And she managed to manipulate into dancing. How, I'll never know. But as long as she continued to display these incredible qualities I didn't have a problem with her staying with us.

And I'm not embarrassed to admit that within a few hours of meeting her she had already obtained a place in my heart, right beside the consulting detective.

**Back in time to Sherlock's POV (I'm so gonna fail this...)**

Kayla was a mystery to me. A mystery I was determined to unravel. I could deduce everything about her as easily as any other person, but one thing I could not discover was why.

Why had her father left to go to sea? It wasn't for money – she appeared rather well-off, judging from her manner – and she didn't have any overseas heritage. It wasn't to escape the family, despite what I may have implied, and there was no reason to leave England, as far as I was aware, so why did he?

Why did she celebrate surviving another year instead of being a year older? The only cause of that would be if she had a possibly fatal disease which, from reading over her medical records, she did not have. Neither did her mother and she didn't have any siblings nor cousins. There was no reason at all she would feel the need to celebrate surviving, so why had she done so?

Why did her mother's friends treat her as if she was stupid? She was very intelligent, not as much as me, but incredibly so for someone her age. Her medical records didn't mention any mental conditions and her mother wasn't one to have older friends from what I had discovered, so why would they treat her as if she was but a baby learning to talk?

There were many more questions floating around the room in my castle I had dubbed as Kayla's and I would have to organise them at one point. Then I would find the answers. But one question I feared I would never find the answer to was why I suddenly cared so much.

**xXx**

_Well, there you have it! I have literally extinguished all of my chapters. Time for some writing! This is gonna be fun, especially with all my home__w__ork. Gotta love grade 9, eh? Gonna have to keep this short - I have another fic clamouring for my attention. Thank you so much again for the Fff-s! (That's the feedback, faves and follows)_

_Catch you later,  
LoS _:D


	15. Forgetting The Term 'Druggie'

Not mine, thinglings... feeling like a stuck record here...

**xXx**

_Hey thinglings, thinglings! I have over 40 reviews!  
Now, I want all of you thinglings to go throw a party.  
Eat cake, have chocolate, devour jam on toast like a starving hedgehog and just celebrate, because I am the happiest fanfic writer alive._

_Thank you thinglings so much for providing your feedback and actually even reading this fic.  
My updates are perilously slow and the chapters are really short, I know, but you thinglings are still reading this and for that, I thank you.  
From the bottom of my feel-damaged heart, I thank you.  
Now, here's a late chapter to celebrate!_

**xXx**

We arrived at the crime scene a few minutes after Sherlock. To say I was surprised that John allowed me to be present is an understatement. However, Mrs Hudson had gone to visit her friend in Bristol and was unable to take care of me. And John still had trust issues, resulting in the extreme improbability of him ever letting a baby-sitter take care of me. But I wasn't complaining – I wanted to see Sherlock in action!

I gave a cautious look toward the orange tape, then toward the adults. The darker-skinned girl appeared to be rather occupied – she was focusing all her willpower into killing Sherlock with her eyes. It wasn't working, to my utter (non-existent) surprise. The same went for the rat-faced man. Well, it might have been a rat. I couldn't particularly tell. The grey-haired one, who seemed to be in charge, was currently being distracted by another officer. I grinned and, releasing John's hand, ducked under the rope.

At the time I entered the cleared-off zone, Sherlock had knelt down over the body, examining the corpse's fingers. Upon hearing my footsteps upon the asphalt, Sherlock looked up and smiled. Actually _smiled_.

"So, Kayla," he said, his baritone voice silky, "What can you deduce of this man?"

The grey-haired man gave a start at his voice, though it may have just been the fact that he had addressed someone that he most certainly didn't know. He was about to interrupt, I was sure, but Sherlock shushed him with a glance and gestured to me to 'go ahead'.

My eyes flickered over the body. He couldn't be older than 35 but his hair was receding – obvious drug use. And if that wasn't enough, the splodgy bruise-like marks on his face were a dead give-away. Tobacco stains on his fingers, smoker, he hadn't today, his clothes were clean.

Caught a train here, ticket stub in his left pocket, probably the early one, judging by the eyes – he'd probably died sometime early this morning. Phone in his pocket, hand by said phone, he was expecting a message, not from a wife, he was unmarried. Most likely from a sibling.

He worked in road-works, there was a tar residue on his shoe. Going by the wound in his chest, he was shot, aiming to kill. It wasn't close up, either – whoever killed him was a master marksman and sniper. Most probably in the army. And, it was hard to see on his pale skin, but was that a watch tan? He owed someone money, then.

I nodded, my brain completed in terms of its humming-bird-like movements.

"He caught a train here, one of the early ones. Called by a sibling saying it was an emergency. He's a smoker and a..." I faltered before remembering the word and continuing, "druggie but he's been clean for what appears to be the last six hours. He's in roadwork's, unmarried and owed someone quite a bit of money. He's had to sell his watch, probably a gift, to pay it off. The people he owed weren't satisfied with the amount but wouldn't have had him killed, not while he still owed them," I explained, my voice high and child-like in the silence.

Sherlock was looking at me with what appeared to be pride and I felt a burst of happiness before frowning internally. When had his opinion begun to matter so much to me?

The others, however, were staring at me with something akin to shock. Upon further examination, I deduced that the grey-haired man had marriage problems – I assumed he was Lestrade - and the black-haired male was in a... sexual relationship with the dark-toned woman with erratic hair. I raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, as if to ask 'Why are they in the police force?'

He replied with an almost indiscernible shrug. John looked on with no small amount of shock but had a ridiculous grin on his face. Upon catching my eye, he gave me a tiny thumbs-up. In that moment, I was perhaps the happiest I had been since I Fell. But then, of course, someone had to ruin it.

"So, ignoring the brat showing off, he was mugged," the black-haired man stated in a high-pitched nasally tone.

Had I been Above, he would be bin a world of pain. Unfortunately, I no longer had that power. I was no longer of high birth – I was trapped, sealed inside a ten-year-old's body. My wings unfurled in anger and I wished I could do more.

"No, Anderson, but thank you for your opinion," Sherlock spat sarcastically, "it was his sibling."

I nodded, smirking at Lestrade's reaction to 'Anderson's' insult. John gave a soft 'oh' of realisation.

"Had the man not been able to pay the fine, they would have gotten his sibling to do it, right?" John stated as well as asked, something I had not thought possible until that moment.

"Yes, much easier to have him killed, don't you think? The sibling exploited his love for his parents, brought him here and had him killed by an assassin. Case closed," Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact tone.

He straightened up and smoothed his amethyst top (I gave a soft giggle at this internal description – if that didn't make him sound gay, then nothing would), his wings ruffling slightly before stilling, then walked to the rope and holding it up. John ducked under it and I followed, bowing my head to avoid the yellow-orange tape. Sherlock continued on and I grabbed John's hand, once again marveling at my lack of body heat.

We could have gone back to 221B to finish lunch without any further incidents, had the dark woman not spoken up.

"Who's she, freak? Someone like you enough to give you a kid?"

I stiffened, as did John. Sherlock had already turned and his wings unfurled so fast I barely had time to duck in order to avoid them – Remember the plains of existence? I existed on both, the mortal one and the Shifted one, so I could still touch his wings. Lestrade watched my sudden movement with confusion, but I didn't see John's reaction.

Sherlock was too angry to notice, not that his expression held anything other than feigned disinterest and disgust. The dark woman was in for it now, I thought sadistically, and released John's hand so as to see Sherlock's movements, a grin forming on my face. The ex-army doctor had yet to turn fully but he was shaking in barely-restrained fury. Suddenly I was glad he'd left his shot-gun at home.

**xXx**

_Can we welcome MyWaywardDaugh__t__er, loveinfinity and Aka-Baka Hoshi to our group of thinglings, please? I'm pretty sure that for this story, there's about *goes to check* 11 and three Guests! I luv you all! Thanks so much for providing feedback!_

_Signos wanted a group name, so... you are all thinglings, and thinglings reading this fic are... 'Locked thinglings? Angel thinglings? Wingthinglings? I love the last one. Imagine that being in a conversation: "Oh, so what are you?" "I'm a wingthingling," and just walking away like a bawss. Can we have a vote? Please? _

_I don't even need to do this, I just think it's cute. And it helps me to refer to you thinglings. Does anyone even know how this started anymore? Oh, yeah, gender neutral. I know that. I did not just go check to see why this started... of course not! Don't be ridikkulus._

_Catch you later,  
LoS _:D

_And remember: TUYCCTLCLS _:)


	16. In The Dimming Daylight (P1 of Reveal)

Well, I don't own it. Wish Gatiss and Moffat didn't have control over it at times, but I still wouldn't own it.

**xXx**

_Wingthinglings, I am in shock. I am literally shaking. 49 reviews?! Whaaat? Wingthinglings, how is this possible? Can someone please explain this to me? How is it that people like this? Can someone help me?_

_Also, thank you so, so much for still being here, all the way at chapter 16. Hello to those that have recently joined our merry band of misfits and thank you for clicking that blue-ish link that opens the first chapter. Heck, thanks to everyone reading this that you clicked that blue-ish link that opened the first chapter then bothered to click the button for the next chapter. Thanks to everyone that typed words into that white-ish box at the bottom! Just thanks. Thank you so, so much. I am not deserving of your support, and thank-you._

**xXx**

"Donovan," Sherlock said seemingly pleasantly, a wretched smile twisting his face into that of a madman, "I still find it incredible, after all this time, how abysmal your intellect is.

"How you could come to the assumption that Kayla is mine is unfathomable to me, but I will take it upon myself to teach you something. Now, as you very well know, and take it upon yourself, much as I do now, to spread it, I am a virgin," Sherlock said shamelessly. Donovan was shocked, to say the very least, and my grin widened at the barely-contained disgust. Anderson was smiling with a savage glee, obviously happy at the announcement and his ability to now spread more rumours.

"This means, as I hope that you would be aware of, I have not reproduced," Sherlock continued, "and further proves that Kayla is, in fact, not mine. I would like to think that you will have become smarter, but this is nigh on impossible.

"However, Donovan, as I have decided to be of use to you yet again, here are some words of advice," Sherlock said, his expression changing from borderline-insane to dangerous and foreboding in the blink of an eye. His wings pulled tight against him and I relaxed from the position I had taken in order to avoid the black (dark navy, but never mind) feathers. John still hadn't turned around.

"First of all, you have nothing to fear of me," he said, and both Donovan and Anderson scoffed in disbelief before he silenced them with a hand, "Nothing at all. In fact, the only person here you should be afraid of is John," aforementioned doctor gave a short start at his name but otherwise remained still. Sherlock continued talking after that, I'm sure, but I blocked it out.

John was staring at the building on the other side of the street. It was a nigh-on dilapidated building made of stone and there was green ivy growing on the side, climbing up the concrete and reaching through the faded red roof. The windows were boarded up and what little could be seen of the inside of the building was dark against, well, the darkness.

((Oh, thinglings, fudge, I just had the best plot idea ever strike me in the middle of writing this. I'm sorry to drag you away from your reading, but give me a sec, alright? This plot idea, I'm not gonna tell you it yet (it involves Moran and the explanation of stuff in chapter 1), but it wasn't even planned! I just needed a crime scene! But it is now part of the plot. You thinglings are gonna love this... Thank you, bunny!))

"Why is there an empty plot there?" John asked me softly, and I started. The area John was looking at was empty?! But it was here, right in front... of... me... oh. I saw it now. Now, I knew.

The sibling hadn't killed the man lying on the pavement a few metres away. I'd known that. He'd gotten someone else to do it. But, whoever they were, they were in the building that only I could see. The body hadn't been moved. Not an inch, to use the phrase. And neither had the sniper. It wouldn't be a job well done if the killer, or in this case, the one that caused the killing was found, would it? Who would pay him if they were dead? No-one could know. But we did.

My body tightened in shock and I grasped John's hand in a death grip. I've always wondered how that phrase could apply to a grip, and now I knew. It was the grip one used when they were staring death in the face.

"What's wrong?" John asked, his voice quiet and commanding.

At this time, he was not the hedgehog or the doctor. He was a soldier trained for battle and could defend himself just as well unarmed as he could with a gun. But not against this. Not against this invisible foe, this monster only I could see in the hideout invisible to mortals.

"You have to believe me, John," I whispered, my voice tinged with fear and my hands freezing compared to his, "You have to believe me when I say that we are in extreme danger and if you don't listen to me, we will all die."

John didn't give any sign of our conversation beside a squeeze of my hand. That was an okay, then. That was him being willing to sacrifice his life for a child he'd met the day before. I would have laughed at the absurdity of it if I weren't so scared.

I strained my eyes, trying to get a glimpse of the murderer through the darkness that shrouded the stone fortress. It may as well have been – it was impenetrable. Even light couldn't touch it, not for anyone else. I blinked in shock as I saw a dark, scaly wing through the topmost boarded-up window on the right. My suspicions were correct. It was one of Us. I took a deep breath and released it all at once, trying not to scream. Or do something even more stupid, like cry.

"When I say, 'piss off' I want to to grab Sherlock and turn him around so that he's facing away from the empty plot. I shall assume that you have a sort of hand signal for Lestrade and the others that notifies them of the danger. They should get behind the car as quickly as possible," I told him quickly, trying not to move my mouth. John nodded quickly and looked at me with a frown.

"I will follow you," I lied, trying to appease him. He nodded again.

Damn right I wasn't following them. My wings were what could be described as indestructible - they would move any inanimate attacking force, such as a bullet, into their plain of existence, meaning that neither they nor any human could be harmed by the object - and certainly large enough to do this to any stray bullets. Sherlock would be safe – the shock of someone touching him would cause his wings to wrap around him as protection, also blocking John. The car wouldn't be enough, but the... Demon, or so to say, would aim for us first. Us being Sherlock, myself and John. No matter what, we were in danger of injury. I could only hope that the lack of room to manoeuvre and boarded windows would hinder the marksman and twist his aim. My eyes flitted back to the window I had seen the wing in. The sniper's gun was clearly visible. I had not time to waste or we were goners.

While I had been assessing the situation repeatedly, John had surreptitiously signalled the team of police. Thank gods they were intelligent enough to cautiously move back. Sherlock was aware that something was wrong but turned away from his face as I was I couldn't see his reaction. I had to act quickly.

"Piss off!" I yelled to the marksman, whose gun jerked and thudded against the wood.

John ran to Sherlock and spun him. He reacted just as I had planned. John was safe. The Yard had moved behind the vehicle and were also out of the way. I tucked my previously slightly-flared wings in close and spun rapidly before spreading them out, providing an extra layer of cover for Sherlock and John in case Sherlock wasn't able to provide the survival instinct or control the wings required to manipulate the bullets.

I felt a slight tug as two of the bullets hit the left wing and passed through. Sherlock and John down. I heard metal hitting metal as three more bullets hit the car. Five down. There was a slight pause, then a searing pain erupted in my shoulder. I'd been hit – the impact of the two bullets must have caused my wing to fall slightly, exposing my shoulder. Six bullets down.

How many bullets did that type of gun have? I swayed slightly and changed the position of my wing to keep balanced. Shaking my head, I forced my sluggish brain to move. How many bullets?! I blinked slowly as my vision darkened. I swayed again and wrapped my wings around me, trying to ignore the pain in my shoulder. How many bullets?! I stumbled over, my vision distorted as the world flowed like a river around me. Cold hands grabbed my shoulders and I cried out in pain. A pale face came into my line of vision, surrounded by a shock of raven-black curls. The light was too dim to make out his face. Dim? I thought it was daytime...

The world went black.

**xXx**

_Hey, wingthinglings. You like? It's short but I'd like to think that it is worth it (like maybelline or whatever that thing with the ad that says 'Because you're worth it'. Other personal care products are available). How was Kayla's panic-thinbgy? Did I write it ok? I was really apprehensive about that bit._

_Yup, I was hit with a plot right where that AN is. And that plot got me to wondering: what is the thing you like best about this story? Can we have a mini-poll? I'm the author, I say yes, so here are your options!_

**1)** The (hopefully) witty dialogue and deduction thought process(es).

**2)** Learning more about Kayla's previous life and the flashbacks.

**3)** The emotional interactions and forming of relationships between both my OC and canon characters.

**4)** The wings. Let's face it, wing!lock is about as awesome as it gets.

**5)** The design and execution of the plot (that is as of yet rather unclear but soon will be crystal) as well as the mystery.

**6)** The fact that it's me writing it (if anyone votes for this, I will die of gratitude. And then be possessed by an angel).

_You can vote for more than one thing, wingthinglings! Niow, I have to go, because I'm actually meant to be doing schoolwork... (ain't nobody got time fo dat!). Yeah. I'm a li'l rebel *puts on prescription sunglasses and folds jumper-clad arms*._

_Catch you later,  
LoS _:D :D :D :D :D

_Also, a dare for all those willing: Either throw your hands up in the air singing 'Ayo, I'm an angel!' or tell a friend at school or work or whatever that you are a wingthingling. I just felt like putting that there, like having a dare._

_Rhyming sentence is rhyming._


	17. The Stars Shine Brighter (P2 of Reveal)

Welp... me no own? You wingthinglings wish I did, I'm sure, but alas, no.

**xXx**

**Due to popular demand, Sherlock's POV**

I cut off mid-sentence as I became aware of my... colleague's actions and positions. Glancing over, I saw Kayla holding John's hand in a _very_ tight grip, an obvious sign that she was scared and that something was wrong. Moving my gaze in the same direction as them, I noticed they were both staring at an empty plot. But- it wasn't empty. There was a shimmering mirage of a building, one that I had never seen before. I blinked rapidly, trying to focus my vision. The building vanished. And all in the moment, I became just as scared as them. I relied on my senses to tell the truth, as nothing else ever had. And now even they were lying to me, giving me false information and illusions. Outside my fast-working brain, my mask was still intact and my face had worked to make my cut-off sentence a warning. I turned the rest of the way to look at John and Kayla. Kayla had the same shimmering around her as the **empty plot** had had, though this also vanished after I focused on the _real _world. Then time sped up and everything occurred at once.

John moved toward me, grabbing my shoulders. I immediately tensed, preparing for pain, before relaxing somewhat upon my evaluation of who had grabbed me. But my shoulders and arms still remained on edge, prepared to defend myself. Suddenly, I felt two spurts of coldness in my stomach, but these vanished as soon as they appeared. I hadn't eaten properly in a while – maybe that was it. I heard the sound of metal on metal as three bullets struck the car I had seen Lestrade and his apes move behind. Then there was the faint sound of a bullet piercing flesh, and I reacted.

Loosening my shoulders, I ran toward Kayla, my mind filled with shock. No, no, she can't be hit! I looked toward her, my eyes darting over her body. She was standing, so not the leg, her top was still a baby-blue, so not torso (thank god) but there was a flowering of redness on her shoulder. She was swaying and staggering, going into a panic attack. Dropping so that I was at her level, I gently grabbed her shoulders to steady her. She gave a cry of pain at the touch, but I had no choice. She was loosing blood too fast. I pressed the wound as her eyes rolled into the back of her head and caught her awkwardly.

In the background, I heard Lestrade calling for an ambulance, Donovan screaming at me, Anderson being stupid because he didn't know where the bullets had come from, cars screeching along the road and so, so much noise. Why were they so stupid? There were only six bullets for that type of gun, they had nothing to worry about except Kayla. John knelt down beside me and removed my blood-soaked hand from Kayla's shoulder, placing his there instead. I made use of the regained ability to move both of my arms to move Kayla into a more comfortable position. Then medics were screaming and she was being taken away as I sat, numb.

I pulled the orange blanket closer towards my body and wondered why my hands were so cold.

**oOo**

**...and back to Kayla's POV**

I blearily opened my eyes, the beep of machinery resounding through my brain. It echoed through my head, creating a cacophony of noise. There was a pounding in my shoulder and my wings were hanging through the mattress, limp. It was an odd feeling, one I hadn't encountered before. The plains of existence had never held much interest to me beyond their scientific cause. Through my dim thoughts, I faintly recalled my father theorising that it was because the energy of the atomic structure operated on a different wave-length, meaning that the atoms could slide in between those of the human world. It didn't really matter, anyway.

The beeps continued as my thoughts slowed. Beep... beep... beep... beep.. beep.. beep.. beep. beep. beep. beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep.

A cool fluid flowed into my arms as I heard the door slam open and I was once again unaware of the world.

**oOo**

The next time I was aware of wakening, there was the sound of violin music. I lay on the white sheets, not bothering to open my eyes, as the music flowed through the room and soothed my frazzled nerves. Sherlock was okay. One down. I took a deep breath in through my nose and caught the scent of tea. John was okay. Two down. I swallowed but didn't say anything. I didn't feel up to talking. The music changed and slowed from and andante to a largo. Large-o, I'd used to say, and my brother would fake a pout and tickle me until I said it right. The music continued as my consciousness ended.

**oOo**

When I was once again aware of my surroundings, I was heavily drugged. They must have upped the dosage, I thought vaguely. Why..? My confusion and question must have shown – either that or I asked it aloud – for there was an answer.

"You were... screaming, in your sleep," a voice with disguised disgust said from somewhere across the room.

I blearily opened one eye to see a faintly glowing white room. Why, I wondered, do they make hospitals so harsh on the eyes when they are full of damaged patients? Blinking a few times to clear my vision, I noticed Mycroft seated in a chair on the other side of the room, his seemingly ever-present umbrella leaning against the wall.

"Mornin', Umbrella-boy," I said in greeting, slurring my words slightly. It was morning – the children's ward faced east ((A.N is it east? I can never be sure with poms)) and the sun was streaming in through the gap in the curtains.

"That is almost impressive," he said in reply, raising an eyebrow at me, "At this dosage you _should_ sound like my brother the first time he overdosed."

I mimed a bow from my horizontal position as my drugged mind raced with the new-found information. Sherlock had done drugs? Not only that, he had overdosed? Twice? He didn't seem the kind of person to be so careless as to mix up the wrong dosage. That spoke of a dramatic event, most likely to do with work than any form of sociality. So what had happened? I'd have to ask Lestrade – he was obliged by right of work to know these sorts of things.

"The Yard are fine, thanks to you."

The smooth voice shattered my concentration and the thoughts flew away like wisps on the wind, then became scattered among the stars. I'd need to fully form a new one, I knew. But it didn't matter at the moment. I'd succeeded.

"I- I'd, personally, like to say thanks. You saved my brother," Mycroft said softly, "and for that, I will forever be in your debt. No one did anything like you did... _last_ time." So... Sherlock had been shot?

I smiled. He did have a heart. "It's fine," I said, "it's what any good person would do."

"No, I wouldn't think so," he said in a musing tone, "just the angelic ones. I must be going. I look forward to meeting you under slightly better circumstances, Kayla," Mycroft said in a way of farewell.

I was already half-asleep but I still caught the adjective. Did he know? Or was it just a guess? The drugs didn't give me time to muse.

**oOo**

_(A.N: I was going to cut it here, but then realised that I couldn't do that to my wingthinglings. How could I, when the next part is so incredible and awaited? So, a double chapter! Enjoy the second half!)_

**oOo**

John scolded me. Said that I wasn't allowed to be a self-sacrificing idiot. I argued back that I wasn't an idiot then he reminded me that I'd gotten shot.

"Sherlock's gotten shot," I told him matter-of-factly, still slurring my words.

I shifted on my bed. John had adjusted the tilt as soon as he arrived and it had taken most of the strain off my shoulder. Aforementioned hedgehog impersonator raised his eyebrows in surprise before shrugging with his non-shot shoulder.

"He's an idiot," he said simply.

"You've gotten shot," I reminded him, and he shrugged again.

"I'm an idiot, too."

I laughed much more than I should have at this statement, especially when he started giggling. I waved this off as an effect of the drugs.

Once my laughing fit was over, we sat in silence for a few minutes.

"Now we match," John said, referring to our shoulders.

"You're right – we're both looking after Sherlock," I said seriously. We began laughing again, but were cut short by nurses sending John out the room for over-exciting me. How boring.

**oOo**

On my sixth 'alive' (being with the ability to wake up – turns out I'd spent three days in a somewhat-comatose state) day in the ward, Molly came to visit briefly. We passed the time with idle chit-chat about work, Sherlock, John and chemical equations. She placed a small vase of lavender beside my bed, saying that it would help me sleep. I'd almost blushed.

The fourth 'alive' day, I'd awoken with a searing pain in my shoulder that had made it impossible to sleep and had me crying out after every breath – this wasn't the reason I'd been screaming, as before proved by the 'impossible to sleep'. The doctors refused to put me on a higher dose of painkillers at first, seeing as I was already third from the highest dose, but Mycroft tweaked a few systems and managed to get me put up one. I was now slurring my words even more and my thinking was slow, but I was just slightly too numb to feel any pain.

The reason for Molly's visit's briefness was that Sherlock and John soon came into visit. John sat in the chair in the corner, as he had been told not to begin any humourous conversations with me and, as proved by the five visits that had ended in laughter so far, this made it rather improbable for him to even be able to begin speaking with me. I made a point not to look at him.

Sherlock had brought his violin with him again. In fact, I hadn't heard him speak a word since I was short – he'd just played. I lay back in bed and watched him as the music flowed over me. When he played his wings became outstretched, I realised in dulled fascination. As if they were revelling, soaking in the music. It felt familiar, comforting, welcoming, because that was what my brother's... did...

Despite the haze of the drugs, my thoughts obtained a clarity and brilliance to them that rivalled that of a diamond. And suddenly, everything was clear. I darted into my mind palace, teleporting to the room I had reserved for Sherlock (which was, coincidentally, right beside my brother's) and flung down the walls between them that I had erected, connecting information and the things that made them together. The deductions, the violin, the wings, the knowledge, everything and anything was joined together in an organised chaos that was perfectly insane and logical. It was my brother and Sherlock as one, just like they were. Sherlock wasn't just similar to my brother, they were one and the same.

But rather than feeling complete or relieved, as I'd imagined I would, I felt hollow. Numbed. Lost. I ran from that room, slamming and bolting the door, and retreated into _my_ room. The one with the lilac grass that changed to a brandeis sky that darkened to an indigo galaxy. The stars swirled as my thoughts did, each seeming so tiny but taking up entire worlds. I stepped into the pool in the centre, dousing the thoughts and sounds that filled my mind. After a few moments of stillness, I retreated. Slowly, then all at once. After that all at once, I became aware of everything, including what appeared to be a gaping hole where my stolen heart was meant to be.

"Why are you crying? Does your shoulder hurt?" a soft voice asked, and I lowered my eyes to see John looking at me, a concerned look on his face.

I shook my head. No, I wasn't in any pain hospital drugs could cure. A star bloomed to life in my room from the dust and began drawing in the information my mother had taught me. Overdoses meant loss of clarity, control, reduced to an infantile state, possibly death... but would that count in Fallen terms?

I looked past him to find that Sherlock had ceased playing and was looking at me with a confused look on his face. I reached up a cold hand to wipe away the tears I didn't know had fallen.

"Because we forgot," I said simply, trying not to slur my words. Sherlock tilted his head, his black wings hanging limply. It was... no, not comforting... good, I supposed, to know my brother still cared.

"Forgot what?" he asked in his baritone voice – it was so nice to hear it again – and I laughed, an ugly, hollow thing that echoed through my seemingly empty rib-cage and shook my numbed body.

"Exactly," I told him, smiling sadly.

And the drugs pulled me under, black feathers imprinted on my mind's eye and music flowing through me.

The star absorbed more information and made more connections as it grew. With no distractions, it flourished under my focus. Traumatic events lead to drugs, more so overdoses... second overdose was worse than the first, so something worse had happened... could that have been my brother that time? Filled with nothing but inexplicable sadness, forced to turn to drugs? I needed more information. The star stabilised.

**xXx**

_Wingthinglings, my hands are shaking. Out of exhilaration, cold or nerves, I'm not sure. In case you had no idea, Kayla's cold hands are based off mine - my hands always seem to be cold. Anyway, back to shaking. I am so, so scared for your responses to this chapter. Is the drug response okay? Did I write Mycroft well? Is Sherlock in character? And oh my gummibears did I write the reveal to your standards? Because I am so, so scared. Please, I need reassurance. This has been a long time in the planning, but actually writing it then posting it for you wingthinglings to read... it's literally almost too much. Please send help! I'm so scared! I really don't like this chapter..._


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